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Letter III
Letter III of 24. Read it here for reference, or continue through the entire work without leaving the reader.
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sur les quakers.
Vous avez déjà vu que les quakers datent depuis Jésus-Christ,qui, selon eux, est le premier quaker, La religion,disent-ils, fut corrompue presque après sa mort, et resta danscette corruption environ seize cents années; mais il y avait toujoursquelques quakers cachés dans le monde, qui prenaient soinde conserver le feu sacré éteint partout ailleurs, jusqu’à ce qu’enfincette lumière s’étendit en Angleterre en l’an 1642.
Ce fut dans le temps que trois ou quatre sectes déchiraient laGrande-Bretagne par des guerres civiles entreprises au nom deDieu qu’un nommé George Fox, du comté de Leicester fils d’unouvrier en soie, s’avisa de prêcher en vrai apôtre, à ce qu’il prétendait,c’est-à-dire sans savoir ni lire ni écrire; c’était un jeune homme de vingt-cinq ans, de mœurs irréprochables, et saintementfou. Il était vêtu de cuir depuis les pieds jusqu’à la tête; ilallait de village en village criant contre la guerre et contre leclergé. S’il n’avait prêché que contre les gens de guerre, il n’avaitrien à craindre; mais il attaquait les gens d’église: il fut bientôtmis en prison. Ou le mena à Darby devant le juge de paix. Foxse présenta au juge avec son bonnet de cuir sur la tête. Un sergentlui donna un grand soufflet, en lui disant: « Gueux, nesais-tu pas qu’il faut paraître tête nue devant monsieur le juge? »Fox tendit l’autre joue, et pria le sergent de vouloir bien lui donnerun autre soufflet pour l’amour de Dieu. Le juge de Darby voulutlui faire prêter serment avant de l’interroger. « Mon ami, sache,dit-il au juge, que je ne prends jamais le nom de Dieu en vain. »Le juge, en colère d’être tutoyé, et voulant qu’on jurât, l’envoyaaux petites-maisons de Darby pour y être fouetté. Fox alla, enlouant Dieu, à l’hôpital des fous, où l’on ne manqua pas d’exécuterla sentence à la rigueur. Ceux qui lui infligèrent la pénitencedu fouet furent bien surpris quand il les pria de lui appliquerencore quelques coups de verges pour le bien de son âme. Cesmessieurs ne se firent pas prier; Fox eut sa double dose, dont illes remercia très-cordialement; puis il se mit à les prêcher.D’abord on rit, ensuite on l’écouta; et, comme l’enthousiasme estune maladie qui se gagne, plusieurs furent persuadés, et ceux quil’avaient fouetté devinrent ses premiers disciples.
Délivré de la prison, il courut les champs avec une douzainede prosélytes, prêchant toujours contre le clergé, et fouetté detemps en temps. Un jour, étant mis au pilori, il harangua tout lepeuple avec tant de force qu’il convertit une cinquantained’auditeurs, et mit le reste tellement dans ses intérêts qu’on letira en tumulte du trou où il était; on alla chercher le curéanglican dont le crédit avait fait condamner Fox à ce supplice,et on le piloria à sa place.
Il osa bien convertir quelques soldats de Cromwell, qui renoncèrent au métier de tuer, et refusèrent de prêter le serment.Cromwell ne voulait pas d’une secte où l’on ne se battait point,de même que Sixte-Quint augurait mal d’une secte dove non si chiavava.Il se servit de son pouvoir pour persécuter ces nouveauxvenus. On en remplissait les prisons; mais les persécutions neservent presque jamais qu’à faire des prosélytes. Ils sortaient deleurs prisons affermis dans leur créance, et suivis de leurs geôliers,qu’ils avaient convertis. Mais voici ce qui contribua le plusà étendre la secte. Fox se croyait inspiré. Il crut par conséquentdevoir parler d’une manière différente des autres hommes. Il semit à trembler, à faire des contorsions et des grimaces, à retenirson haleine, à la pousser avec violence; la prêtresse de Delphesn’eût pas mieux fait. En peu de temps il acquit une grande habituded’inspiration, et bientôt après il ne fut guère en son pouvoirde parler autrement. Ce fut le premier don qu’il communiquaà ses disciples. Ils firent de bonne foi toutes les grimaces de leurmaître, ils tremblaient de toutes leurs forces au moment de l’inspiration.De là ils eurent le nom de quakers, qui signifie trembleurs.Le petit peuple s’amusait à les contrefaire. On tremblait, on parlaitdu nez, on avait des convulsions, et on croyait avoir le Saint-Esprit.Il leur fallait quelques miracles, ils en firent.
Le patriarche Fox dit publiquement à un juge de paix, enprésence d’une grande assemblée: « Ami, prends garde à toi,Dieu te punira bientôt de persécuter les saints. » Ce juge était univrogne qui s’enivrait tous les jours de mauvaise bière et d’eau-de-vie:il mourut d’apoplexie deux jours après, précisémentcomme il venait de signer un ordre pour envoyer quelques quakersen prison. Cette mort soudaine ne fut point attribuée àl’intempérance du juge; tout le monde la regarda comme uneffet des prédictions du saint homme.
Cette mort fit plus de quakers que mille sermons et autant deconvulsions n’en auraient pu faire. Cromwell, voyant que leurnombre augmentait tous les jours, voulut les attirer à son parti:il leur fit offrir de l’argent, mais ils furent incorruptibles; et il ditun jour que cette religion était la seule contre laquelle il n’avaitpu prévaloir avec des guinées.
Ils furent quelquefois persécutés sous Charles II, non pourleur religion, mais pour ne vouloir pas payer les dîmes au clergé, pour tutoyer les magistrats, et refuser de prêter les sermentsprescrits par la loi.
Enfin Robert Barclay, Écossais, présenta au roi, en 1675, sonApologie des Quakers, ouvrage aussi bon qu’il pouvait l’être.L’épître dédicatoire à Charles II contient, non de basses flatteries.mais des vérités hardies et des conseils justes, « Tu as goûté,dit-il à Charles à la fin de cette épître, de la douceur et de l’amertume,de la prospérité et des plus grands malheurs; tu as étéchassé des pays où tu règnes; tu as senti le poids de l’oppression,et tu dois savoir combien l’oppresseur est détestable devant Dieuet devant les hommes. Que si, après tant d’épreuves et de bénédictions,ton cœur s’endurcissait et oubliait le Dieu qui s’est souvenude toi dans tes disgrâces, ton crime en serait plus grand, etta condamnation plus terrible. Au lieu donc d’écouter les flatteursde ta cour, écoute la voix de ta conscience, qui ne te flatterajamais. Je suis ton fidèle ami et sujet Barclay, »
Ce qui est plus étonnant, c’est que cette lettre, écrite à un roipar un particulier obscur, eut son effet, et que la persécutioncessa.
Musean translation
Mouseia’s complete machine-assisted Musean translation, made directly from the French text of all twenty-four letters (Garnier edition, 1879, French Wikisource) for fidelity, the author’s force and cadence, and modern clarity.
On the Quakers
You have already seen that the Quakers date their beginnings from Jesus Christ, who, according to them, is the first Quaker. Religion, they say, was corrupted almost immediately after his death and remained in that corruption for about sixteen hundred years; but there were always a few hidden Quakers in the world who took care to preserve the sacred fire, extinguished everywhere else, until at last its light spread through England in the year 1642.
It was when three or four sects were tearing Great Britain apart in civil wars undertaken in God's name that a certain George Fox, from the county of Leicester and the son of a silk worker, took it into his head to preach like a true apostle, as he claimed—that is, without knowing how to read or write. He was a young man of twenty-five, of irreproachable conduct and holy madness. He was dressed in leather from head to foot; he went from village to village crying out against war and the clergy. Had he preached only against soldiers, he would have had nothing to fear; but he attacked churchmen, and he was soon put in prison. They took him to Darby before the justice of the peace. Fox appeared before the judge with his leather cap on his head. A sergeant gave him a resounding slap and said, “Scoundrel, don't you know you must appear bareheaded before the judge?” Fox turned the other cheek and asked the sergeant to be so good as to slap him again for the love of God. The judge of Darby wanted him to swear an oath before questioning him. “My friend, understand,” he told the judge, “that I never take God's name in vain.” The judge, angered at being addressed as an equal and determined to have him swear, sent him to the madhouse at Darby to be whipped. Fox went off praising God to the asylum, where the sentence was duly carried out to the letter. The gentlemen who administered his punishment with the whip were greatly surprised when he asked them to give him a few more strokes of the rod for the good of his soul. They needed no urging; Fox received a double dose, for which he thanked them most heartily, and then began to preach to them. At first they laughed, then they listened; and since enthusiasm is a contagious disease, several were persuaded, and those who had whipped him became his first disciples.
Released from prison, he roamed the countryside with a dozen converts, always preaching against the clergy and being whipped from time to time. One day, when he was put in the pillory, he addressed the whole crowd with such force that he converted some fifty listeners and won the rest so completely to his side that they pulled him in an uproar out of the hole where he was held. They went to fetch the Anglican parson whose influence had secured Fox's sentence and put him in the pillory in his place.
He even dared to convert some of Cromwell's soldiers, who renounced the trade of killing and refused to take the oath. Cromwell had no use for a sect that would not fight, just as Sixtus V took a dim view of a sect where no one was having sex. He used his power to persecute these newcomers. The prisons were filled with them; but persecution almost never does anything except win converts. They came out of prison confirmed in their belief and followed by the jailers they had converted. But this is what did most to spread the sect. Fox believed himself inspired. Consequently he thought he ought to speak differently from other men. He began to tremble, to contort his body and make faces, to hold his breath and force it out violently; the priestess of Delphi could have done no better. Before long he became thoroughly practiced at inspiration, and soon afterward it was scarcely in his power to speak any other way. This was the first gift he passed on to his disciples. In all good faith they made every face their master made; they trembled with all their might at the moment of inspiration. From this they received the name Quakers, meaning tremblers. The common people amused themselves by imitating them. They trembled, spoke through their noses, went into convulsions, and believed they possessed the Holy Spirit. They needed a few miracles, so they performed them.
The patriarch Fox publicly told a justice of the peace, before a large gathering: “Friend, take care; God will soon punish you for persecuting the saints.” This judge was a drunkard who got drunk every day on bad beer and brandy: two days later he died of apoplexy, just after signing an order to send some Quakers to prison. His sudden death was not attributed to the judge's intemperance; everyone regarded it as the fulfillment of the holy man's prophecies.
That death made more Quakers than a thousand sermons and as many convulsions could have made. Cromwell, seeing their number increase every day, wished to draw them to his side: he had money offered to them, but they proved incorruptible; and he said one day that this was the only religion he had not been able to prevail against with guineas.
They were sometimes persecuted under Charles II, not on account of their religion, but because they would not pay tithes to the clergy, addressed magistrates as equals, and refused to take the oaths prescribed by law.
At last Robert Barclay, a Scot, presented to the king in 1675 his Apology for the Quakers, as good a work as it could be. The dedicatory epistle to Charles II contains not servile flattery but bold truths and sound advice. “You have tasted,” he tells Charles at the end of this epistle, “sweetness and bitterness, prosperity and the greatest misfortunes; you have been driven from the countries over which you reign; you have felt the weight of oppression, and must know how hateful the oppressor is before God and men. If, after so many trials and blessings, your heart should harden and forget the God who remembered you in your adversity, your crime would be greater and your condemnation more terrible. Instead, then, of listening to the flatterers of your court, listen to the voice of your conscience, which will never flatter you. I am your faithful friend and subject, Barclay.”
What is more astonishing is that this letter, written to a king by an obscure private citizen, had its effect, and the persecution ceased.
Plain English translation
Mouseia’s complete Plain English edition, made independently and directly from the French text of all twenty-four letters (Garnier edition, 1879, French Wikisource).
On the Quakers
You have already seen that the Quakers trace themselves back to Jesus Christ, who they say was the first Quaker. They say religion was corrupted almost immediately after his death and stayed corrupt for about sixteen hundred years. But there were always some hidden Quakers in the world who kept the sacred fire alive when it had gone out everywhere else. At last, in 1642, its light spread through England.
At a time when three or four sects were tearing Great Britain apart in civil wars fought in God’s name, a man called George Fox began preaching. He came from Leicester County and was the son of a silk worker. He claimed to preach like a true apostle: that is, without knowing how to read or write. He was twenty-five, lived an irreproachable life, and was mad in a holy way. Dressed head to toe in leather, he went from village to village speaking out against war and the clergy. If he had preached only against soldiers, he would have had nothing to fear. But he attacked churchmen, and soon he was imprisoned. He was taken before a justice of the peace in Darby. Fox appeared before the judge with his leather cap on. An officer slapped him hard and said, “You scoundrel! Don’t you know you must take your hat off before the judge?” Fox turned his other cheek and asked the officer to slap it too, for the love of God. The judge of Darby wanted Fox to take an oath before questioning him. “My friend,” Fox told the judge, “you should know I never use God’s name in vain.” Angry at being addressed so familiarly, and determined to make Fox swear, the judge sent him to the Darby madhouse to be whipped. Fox went to the asylum praising God, and the sentence was carried out in full. The men who whipped him were amazed when he asked for a few more lashes for the good of his soul. They needed no urging. Fox received twice the punishment and thanked them warmly for it. Then he started preaching to them. At first they laughed, then they listened. Enthusiasm is contagious: several were convinced, and the men who had whipped him became his first disciples.
After his release, he traveled the countryside with a dozen converts, still preaching against the clergy and getting whipped now and then. One day, while he was in the pillory, he spoke to the whole crowd with such force that he converted about fifty listeners. The rest took his side so strongly that they pulled him out of the hole in an uproar. Then they fetched the Anglican minister whose influence had brought about Fox’s punishment and put him in the pillory instead.
He even dared to convert some of Cromwell’s soldiers. They gave up the business of killing and refused to take the oath. Cromwell had no use for a sect that would not fight, just as Sixtus V thought badly of a sect where no one had sex. He used his power to persecute these newcomers. The prisons filled with them, but persecution almost always produces more converts. They came out of prison more certain of their beliefs, followed by jailers they had converted. Yet what did most to spread the sect was this: Fox believed he was inspired. So he thought he had to speak differently from other people. He began to tremble, twist his body, make faces, hold his breath, and then breathe out violently. The priestess at Delphi could not have done better. He quickly became so used to speaking under inspiration that before long he could hardly speak any other way. This was the first gift he passed on to his disciples. They sincerely copied all their master’s grimaces and shook with all their might when inspiration came. That is how they got the name Quakers, meaning “shakers.” Ordinary people amused themselves by imitating them. People shook, spoke through their noses, had convulsions, and believed they had the Holy Spirit. They needed some miracles, so they produced some.
The patriarch Fox publicly told a justice of the peace before a large crowd, “Friend, watch out. God will soon punish you for persecuting the saints.” This judge was a drunk who got drunk every day on bad beer and brandy. Two days later he died of a stroke, just after signing an order to put some Quakers in prison. No one blamed the judge’s sudden death on his drinking. Everyone saw it as the result of the holy man’s prediction.
That death made more Quakers than a thousand sermons and as many fits of shaking could have made. Cromwell saw their numbers growing daily and wanted them on his side. He had money offered to them, but they could not be bought. He once said that this was the only religion he had not been able to win over with guineas.
They were sometimes persecuted under Charles II, not for their religion but because they would not pay tithes to the clergy, addressed magistrates familiarly, and refused to take the oaths required by law.
At last, in 1675, Robert Barclay, a Scot, presented the king with his Apology for the Quakers, a work as good as it could be. The dedication to Charles II contains no cheap flattery, but bold truths and sound advice. “You have tasted,” he tells Charles at the end, “sweetness and bitterness, prosperity and the worst misfortunes. You have been driven out of the lands you rule. You have felt the weight of oppression, and you should know how hateful an oppressor is to God and to people. If, after so many trials and blessings, your heart grew hard and you forgot the God who remembered you in your troubles, your wrongdoing would be greater and your punishment more terrible. Instead of listening to the flatterers at your court, listen to your conscience, which will never flatter you. I am your faithful friend and subject, Barclay.”
More surprising still, this letter from an unknown private citizen to a king had an effect: the persecution ended.